


2018 PPC Prompt Fics

by Neshomeh



Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey, Protectors of the Plot Continuum
Genre: Aftercare, Backstory, Bread, Cooking Lessons, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Goodbyes, Grief/Mourning, Harpercraft (Dragonriders of Pern), Mating Flight (Dragonriders of Pern), Oops, PPC Interlude, Prompt Fic, Questioning, Scars, Search (Dragonriders of Pern), Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 06:42:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14326806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neshomeh/pseuds/Neshomeh
Summary: A collection of one-shots inspired by prompts posted on the PPC Posting Board, courtesy of Novastorme.





	1. When Will We See You Again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Timeline:** 16 9P/2524 AL, Pern. Approximately 17 years prior to the events of ["Harry Potter and the Dragonriders of Pern."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14237403)

“It would be you.” Sebrin stood in the doorway to Ezerik’s room in the journeymen’s dormitory with his arms folded and his blue eyes narrowed with a disapproving frown. “Some people just have all the luck.”

Ezerik ignored him. He was busy gleefully throwing everything he owned into a haversack. It wasn’t much: a few respectable sets of clothing; a crude model of his father’s schooner, the _Zephyr_ ; and, most importantly, his harp, specially padded and wrapped in oilcloth. It was the second-best instrument he had, after his voice, and the first of his make good enough to qualify for a stamp of approval from old Master Jerint. Maybe he wouldn’t get much use out of it, but he couldn’t bear to leave it behind.

Some of the other first-year journeymen clustered in the room or the corridor, joined by a couple of senior apprentices who were daring to risk a tardy arrival to their lessons just to see him off.

“And some people should keep their sour grapes to themselves,” said Hessrian, a blond, smooth-cheeked boy who had been devoted to Ezerik since he’d stopped Sebrin picking on him. At twelve, Hessie had been little and scared, but in three Turns he’d shot up in height and learned to hold his own against the older lads.

Ezerik was proud of him. “You tell him, Hessie.” He straightened up from his cot and looked around to make sure he wasn’t missing anything.

All he saw was the familiar faces of those around him. In all the excitement, it hadn’t really hit him yet that he was leaving them all behind, but the way they looked at him, with a mixture of pride and envy and sorrow, struck his heart. The Harper Hall had been his home, his family, for six Turns, fully one third of his life. When he had earned his journeyman’s knots and walked the tables to the cheers and applause of his fellows, just a few months ago, it had been the greatest moment of his life, and he had thought it could only be surpassed by gaining his mastery in time. Now that dream was over.

Another one had taken its place. He would miss his friends in the Hall, but it wasn’t the end of the world—it was a new beginning. He would make sure.

“Listen, Hessie,” he said, putting a hand on the younger boy’s shoulder. “You’ll look after the little ones for me, won’t you? Don’t let bullies like Sebrin push them around.”

Sebrin snorted. He hadn’t bothered anyone in Turns. Since Ezerik had thumped him the second time, he’d saved his quarrels for his cocksure young rival.

Hessie nodded. “I won’t.”

“And I’ll be sure to tell Quinya you said goodbye, since you can’t,” Sebrin added with a smirk. “You horrible heartbreaker. She’ll be devastated. I’ll probably have to comfort her, all night.”

Ezerik chuckled, shaking his head. “Quinya has better sense than that. She’ll be happy for me. You all will... won’t you?”

The others nodded and gave him their assurances: they were thrilled, of course. One of them being chosen was an honor that reflected on them all, and the younger ones could still dream that one day, it might be them.

A loud, brassy bugle from the quadrangle made them all jump.

“That’s your ride,” said Sebrin, finally moving out of the doorway. “You’d better run.”

“Yeah.” Ezerik pulled on his coat, though the day was warm, and threw his haversack over one shoulder. “Well... good-bye, then.”

Hessie put a hand on his arm. “When will we see you again?”

“I don’t know.” Ezerik grinned, and his hazel eyes gleamed with excitement. “But if you do, you’ll have to look up, because I’ll be on the back of a bronze dragon!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published to the PPC Posting Board on February 12, 2018, as a belated response to Novastorme’s prompt, “When will I see you again?”
> 
> Ezerik, of course, goes by another name these days. {= )


	2. What Am I Forgetting?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Timeline:** Early 2018, a couple months since ["The Company of Thorin Oakenshield with Future Giants."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14244768)

Late evening in Response Center 1110. Chance of a new mission coming in: slight but not zero. Opportunities for extracurricular carousing: exhausted. Fellrazer and the minis: fed, watered, and settled into their corners. As for the agents . . .

Derik sat at the console desk, hand-writing their latest mission report. He was a hopelessly slow typist, and he appreciated the luxury of having paper freely available to write on with high-quality ink. Like anyone who had copied records under Master Archivist Arnor and not been kicked out, his handwriting was small and neat, and had become rather pretty with the freedom he now had to flourish.

Gall was cross-legged on the floor, sealing and labeling vials of the latest batch of Monstrous Nightmare Gel collected from Fellrazer. Selling the very useful commodity, which had started out simply as a means to keep the dragon fed without resorting to robbery, had turned into a serious enterprise. Gall had somewhat ingeniously expanded it by expanding her dragon at every opportunity, courtesy of the collar that normally kept him shrunk down to large-dog-size instead of large-horse-size: it worked in reverse, too. The bigger the dragon, the greater the volume of flammable saliva produced, the greater the profits. Some people might have questioned the physics of this, but such thoughts never crossed Gall's mind. It worked, because she wanted it to.

She had a habit of humming to herself while she worked, which Derik had grown to tolerate. Her voice wasn't _bad_ , and she could carry a tune when she felt like it, but she often didn't bother with anything like a melody, just meandered aimlessly through pitches for which the notation he'd learned had no signs. He understood there were musical traditions that encouraged this sort of thing; he didn't think Gall's was actually one of them.

She stopped. He looked down at her, eyebrows raised in an inquiry.

She had a quizzical look on her face, her mouth pursed to one side. "Do you ever get the feeling you forgot something, but you can't think what?"

"Sometimes I think I've forgotten more than I ever knew," Derik said. "Why?"

"I've got it now, and it's really annoying."

He turned in his chair to face her more fully. The report would keep. "Well, is it something you were supposed to do?"

She shook her head. "No way. We did the mission; I flew and fed and de-drooled Fellrazer; the minis got their bacon and bouillabaisse; if I polished my mace any more it might blind your other eye; I haven't even _worn_ my armor lately, let alone needed to clean it." She rapped her knuckles impatiently against her thigh as she thought. "Seriously, the hell?"

"Laundry?"

"Your turn this week, dude."

Derik grimaced; it was, and he hated it. "Plans? Anything you should have told me about and haven't?"

"I don't _think_ so." More rapping. "I told you I'm doing the thing with the kids again, right?"

"Yes; I think I expressed my feeling that I still can't believe they _let_ you."

Gall grinned. "Hey, Fellrazer and me are totally ambassadors for our universe. It's _educational_."

"And obscenely dangerous."

"Whaaat? We strap them on, so the worst that can happen to them is they puke, which is totally outside my control. Not my fault if they keep shouting 'do a barrel-roll!' and he's so well-trained he just reacts like a pro." She snickered, and Fellrazer, having lifted his head at the sound of his name, joined in with the odd hollow chortling noise that was the Nightmare's laughter.

Derik's jaw dropped open a moment. "That's not what I was talking about—but good _grief_ , tell me that did not really happen."

Gall's grin got wider. "Hey, don't worry! We have DOGA agents on standby for when we do the flame jacket demo."

"Self-admitted pyromaniacs. This does not inspire me with confidence. And you didn't answer me."

"If you're so concerned, you should come next time," Gall said, leaning back on her elbows. She managed to do this with her legs still crossed, which made for an unusual view. "You could do the whole boring health and safety thing, and then our butts would be covered and we could get on with the important part: having fun."

"I'm busy, and no, I will not be your liability waiver."

"Aw, come on, you gotta take a break from your boyfriend sometime." Gall used her most ingratiating tone, which was both transparently insincere and irritating. "Have I mentioned lately that that bullshit is bullshit?"

Derik grinned. He was going to win this game. "What, the part where you're jealous? Would it help if I gave you all the sordid details of what we get up to, locked away together in that exceedingly tiny response center for hours on end?"

" _Ugh_. You suck—no pun, because that would be interesting and you are _so_ boring and lame." Gall flopped all the way down onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. "What were we even talking about?"

Chuckling to himself, Derik shrugged and turned back to his report. "I forget."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally published to the PPC Posting Board on March 1, 2018, in response to Novastorme’s prompt “Your character forgot something.”
> 
> I tried to get Gall to talk to me and give me something to work with here, because I really need to develop her more, but she wasn't cooperating. So I took having no idea what she might have been forgetting and ran with it, and this is what happened. {= P


	3. Paint the Town Green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Timeline:** March 17, 2018.

“Okay: how do I look?” Gall stepped out of the bathroom and spread her arms.

On his cot, Derik lowered _The Tempest_ and rolled over to his right far enough to look at her without twisting his neck.

There was a moment. Over the years, Gall had become very familiar with this moment. It was almost like a staring contest, each of them watching and waiting to see if something would happen. It hadn’t yet, and Gall was getting a bit desperate. Not that she was _desperate_ , mind you, just frustrated. But not _frustrated_. She wasn’t pining away for Twu Wub like some yak-brained idiot. It was just . . .

Derik tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “Like you raided the darkest, most humiliating depths of Elms’ closet,” he said.

The moment ended, like it always did, in disappointment. Gall sighed heavily and rolled her eyes.

Derik went on: “I thought you said you were going to World One. That can’t be appropriate.”

Dammit, she’d been sure this would get a reaction. The low white bodice with the sleeves hanging off her shoulders, the tight green leather corset and matching skirt, the sheer white stockings and black buckled shoes . . . the costume didn’t leave much to the imagination. Okay, so Gall didn’t have much to flaunt in the assets department, but the corset helped, and the color suited her complexion, too. She was a natural redhead. That was supposed to count for something, dammit!

“Shows what you know,” she huffed. “This is totally traditional. I’m supposed to be, like, a leprechaun or something. Buy me a green beer and I’ll show you me pot o’ gold.” She cocked her hips and grinned. That was a pretty good line, if she did say so herself, and she did. “Pretty good, right?”

Nothing.

_ Dammit. _

Derik sat up. “Correct me if I’m wrong—”

“You’re wrong.”

“—but I thought this holiday was about a man named Patrick driving snakes off an island that never had any to begin with. What does this—” he gestured to all of her “—have to do with that?”

She shrugged. “Hell if I know. Who cares? It’s an excuse to party, and everything has to be green. Green clothes, green beer, green food—and get this: the city we’re going to, Chicago? Gremlin says they turn their _river_ green.”

“Are you sure she’s not winding you up?”

“No. But again, who cares, as long as there’s booze and hot people?” In a brilliantly unsubtle segue, she added, “You could come if you want. I bet we could find you a shamrock thong.” Gods, she wished.

“No,” Derik said far more quickly and decisively than was fair. “You and Gremlin have your Girls’ Night. I’ll stay in this time.” He held up his book, telling her he planned to be extremely boring and sit around reading all night.

She sighed again. “Fine. Don’t forget to sweep out the fireproof corner, it’s getting all sooty again.”

“Fine, fine.” He flicked his fingers; he’d take care of it. “Go. Have fun.”

He really meant that last part. _Dammit._

She smirked at him. “Hey, if I come home with someone, do you want me to warn you, or what?”

He looked down at his book and shrugged those perfectly contoured shoulders she was dying to sink her fingers and possibly her teeth into. “I’ll clear out if you like. I would prefer a warning, but if that isn’t possible, an awkward scramble will have to suffice.”

_Dammit._ “Heh. Yeah, fair enough.”

The sad part was, if he’d just been a normal person and jumped her bones as soon as she made it clear she was interested, that probably would have been the end of it. As it stood, his bizarre and unnatural reluctance was like a challenge, and she never backed down from a challenge. She had never expected it to go on this long, and she knew she should have given up ages ago, but without her notice, things had changed. The longer it dragged out, the less it was about pure, clean animal lust, and the more it became about something much harder to define, like maybe principles or honor. Whatever. The point was, she knew he would come around one day. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did. And when that day came, she would be there, and all would be right with the world.

But in the meantime, she’d party with her best friend, get drunk on green beer, and maybe get a little action to tide her over.

“All right, I’m off to paint the town green. Catch you later!”

One day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally published to the PPC Posting Board on March 10, 2018, in response to Novastorme’s prompt: “At least one of your characters is preparing for/on a date.”
> 
> Apologies for the distilled cultural insensitivity that is a typical St. Patrick’s Day celebration in these parts. Personally, I make a point of staying indoors on whatever Saturday they do the thing with the river. Drunk loonies everywhere. *shudder*
> 
> I kinda feel like I should apologize for taking you inside Gall’s head, too, but really getting in there and figuring out how it works is something I need to do, so y’all get to take the journey with me. The [MTG colors thread](http://disc.yourwebapps.com/discussion.cgi?disc=199610;article=314265;title=PPC%20Posting%20Board) has actually helped with this, making the title all the more appropriate. ^_^
> 
> P.S. [Just in case](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Tempest) [anyone is wondering](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prospero) [why _The Tempest_](http://warhammer40k.wikia.com/wiki/Prospero). (It’s funny. Chuckle ironically, dammit!)
> 
> Also, bonus images!
> 
> Iximaz used Recolor.me to make [this super-cute avatar of Gall in her outfit](https://i.imgur.com/slgPZSi.png).
> 
> And then I did [this](https://neshomeh.deviantart.com/art/Shamrockin-735096909), which is technically not indecent, but you still may not want to view it at work/school. {= )


	4. Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Timeline:** Sometime in 2016, after ["Second Glance."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14242407) Probably after ["Third Kind,"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14242629) too.

The last tiny screw slid home, and Ilraen stepped back from his work table with a sigh of satisfaction. He held up the Character Analysis Device he’d been working on for the better part of eight years. <There! I think it is finally finished.>  
  
“Seriously?” Nume, who’d been reading on his high bunk, closed his book and shifted around to peer down over the foot rail. “I never thought I’d live to see the day. Mostly because I was sure you were going to blow up the RC.”  
  
<In the beginning, perhaps that fear was justified, but I have learned a great deal since then,> Ilraen answered happily. <The schematics Farilan gave me have been instrumental in perfecting the L-dimensional circuitry, of course.>  
  
“Sure.” Nume rolled his eyes. “So are you going to try it out, or what?”  
  
<Would you like to be the first subject of character analysis?>  
  
Nume hesitated. “You’re _sure_ it won’t explode? Even if it thinks I’m massively out of character for some reason?”  
  
Ilraen nodded.  <With the more advanced heat sink in place, I am very confident it will not.>  
  
After a moment, Nume said, “All right. Just a sec.” He swung his feet over the side of the bunk and dropped down the ladder to the floor. Now standing in his socks, he held his arms out to either side. “Go for it.”  
  
Having turned to face him, Ilraen pointed the CAD and took a deep breath. <They say ‘here goes nothing’, but I hope it will not be nothing. So, here goes something.>  
  
He pushed the activation button.  
  
< **BEEEEEEP!** > went the CAD.  
  
Both agents cringed and yelped. Ilraen’s ears flattened against his skull and Nume covered his with his hands, but it didn’t help either of them.  
  
< **SUPERNUMERARY, PPC AGENT, CANON,** > went the CAD. < **ALSO KNOWN AS** —>  
  
_“Turn it off!”_ cried Nume.  
  
Ilraen held the device at arm’s length in one hand and flailed at it with the other, frantically mashing the buttons until he toggled it off more or less by accident.  
  
The pair heaved twin sighs of relief.  
  
Nume glared at his partner.  
  
Ilraen looked down and pawed sheepishly at the floor with one hoof.  <Perhaps . . . perhaps installing a thought-speak transponder was not such a good idea after all.>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally published to the PPC Posting Board on April 12, 2018, in response to Novastorme's prompt "Partaking in hobbies."
> 
> I have no idea what L-dimensional circuitry is, but it probably has to do with Library Space? Beats me, I'm not an engineer. ^_^


	5. Racing 1 - Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Timeline:** 18 9P/2526 AL, Pern. Approximately 2 years since "When Will We See You Again?" and 15 years prior to the events of ["Harry Potter and the Dragonriders of Pern."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14237403)

Cheladoth screamed at them one more time over her drained wherry, then launched into the air. In a flurry of blue, brown, and bronze wings, they followed.

Skepnadth thrilled to the power of his wings. It had been too long since he’d flown, _really_ flown, and he roared out his joy at regaining his supremacy in the sky. Each wingbeat sent a delicious rush of wind over his body, hot with the southern sun on his glossy, dark bronze hide; hot with the blood of the herdbeast he’d killed racing through his veins; hot with desire for his pretty green wingmate.

Usually the lambent shade of the sea after a storm, Cheladoth now gleamed enticingly jade as she darted away from her suitors. She was two Turns older, more experienced, and fast. In the time it had taken Skepnadth to get off the ground, she had already climbed over the treetops. The blues, only a little larger than she, were close behind, but she was too clever for them. When one got too near, she turned on a tailtip and changed course, weaving sinuously through the air like a dolphin through water. She, too, reveled in her prowess, and did not intend for her flight to be arrested so easily.

Skepnadth knew he could catch her. She was fast, but he was strong: he could outlast her and outstrip the lesser males in her train. His only real competition was the other bronze, Arnoth. He flew wingsecond, and not for nothing: he was smart, his conformation excellent with a bright, brassy hide, and he was brave and tireless in Threadfall. Skepnadth’s race was against him.

The two kept an eye on each other as they beat their way past the flagging blues and sought to gain the edge on the trio of browns who were still keeping up. Cheladoth was showing off now, pretending to fall back only to twist away and put on another burst of speed when one of them fell for it. Skepnadth saw that she couldn’t keep it up much longer, though, and he knew Arnoth knew it, too. Her color was less bright, her turns less sharp. It was just a matter of time before she’d have to choose or let the competition choose for her.

The young bronze wanted her to choose him. He’d show her he was the best dragon here—the best on Pern!

He filled his lungs to their limit and let out a great bugle that would have shaken leaves off the trees if they weren’t so high aloft. The others answered with startled challenges of their own. In that moment, just when everyone’s eyes were on him, he pumped his wings as hard as he could and shot out ahead of the pack. He was right below Cheladoth. She tilted her head down toward him with a flirtatious call, then climbed up, away. He followed.

Arnoth was right behind him, and gaining. Skepnadth cut across his path, blocking him, but losing momentum. The other bronze turned, almost as nimbly as a green, and the two spiraled around one another. Skepnadth couldn’t get past him; any way he turned, Arnoth turned, too, the perfect mirror. He hissed in frustration. Cheladoth had stooped down to loop them, taunting them with her nearness, and one of the browns was making a bid to catch up while the bronzes kept each other trapped.

Skepnadth couldn’t allow it. There would be one chance: one moment when Cheladoth was nearer to him than to Arnoth, and he could break away. He just had to see it coming.

It came! There she was, just beneath him. He folded his wings, dropped like a stone, and threw out his claws. Cheladoth squawked in surprise and tried to roll out of reach, but too slow: her claws rotated into range, and he snagged them in his own. Their necks twined together. Skepnadth opened his wings with a leathery snap, and together, they glided.

* * *

When it was over, the two riders put their pants back on and sat side by side on the edge of the shelter’s bed, regaining their bearings. It was warm, since privacy wouldn’t allow for the wide open windows generally required in the south, but the wind had changed, and a welcome breeze off the ocean blew in through narrow slats below the roof.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” V’ranen asked. The dark-skinned Istan gently turned E’rik’s head toward him with two fingers beneath his chin and examined the shiny, white and red Threadscars on the right side of his face. “I tried to go easy on you, but you know how it is . . . ”

E’rik shrugged. “Well, you didn’t make it all better—but you could hardly make it worse.” He tried to smile without looking like he was leering. In fact, he’d lost sensation in that side of his face, and with it, mobility.

V’ranen looked dubious, so E’rik added, “We’ve been cleared for _between_ flight for a sevenday. If I’m healed enough for that, I’m healed enough for this. And it was good timing. Skepnadth needed the boost to his confidence.”

V’ranen was kind enough not to comment on the blatant falsehood beyond a skeptical “Uh-huh.”

Of course, in the manner of dragonkind, Skepnadth barely remembered the accident anymore. It was his rider who suffered the worst of it, both physically and emotionally, and was still reeling from the blow to his self-assurance. After all, it was E’rik’s lapse in judgement that had resulted in them both being scored. After letting his dragon down so badly, it was he who needed to renew his faith in the strength of their bond. The exultant merging of their psyches in a successful mating flight had been just the antidote.

Currently, he felt Skepnadth’s replete satisfaction with himself as he curled more snugly around Cheladoth in the wallow outside. _I never doubted us_ , he murmured sleepily.

In the shelter, E’rik chuckled. “Anyway, thanks,” he said, giving the greenrider a companionable clap on his bare shoulder. “I hope I wasn’t . . . you know . . . terrible to be with.”

“Oh, no worries. Anything for a wingmate in need, and Cheladoth likes Skepnadth.” V’ranen smiled, his teeth standing out brilliantly in his dark face. “In fact, if you find you have green fancies after all, feel free to seek me out again.”

“I don’t think you can use that expression anymore,” E’rik said, flattered and a little embarrassed. “More girls are Impressing greens all the time.”

V’ranen shrugged. “I’m sure the girls won’t turn you away, either. Seriously, if you’re worried about this . . . ” he touched the back of his fingers to E’rik’s scarred cheek, “don’t be. Anyone who can’t see past it isn’t worth it.”

E’rik hadn’t allowed himself to dwell much on his drastically altered appearance—he was lucky to be alive, and wallowing in depression wasn’t fair to Skepnadth—but he hadn’t completely accepted it, either. The other man’s reassurance buoyed his spirits, and he nodded.

“Thank you, V’ranen. For everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published to the PPC Posting Board on May 9, 2018, as a response to Novastorme’s prompt “One of your characters is racing.”
> 
> The subtitle for this piece is “How Derik Got His Groove Back.” The first time, anyway. {= )
> 
> I don’t like using his original name, because doing dragonrider names like common Western names with an apostrophe stuck in is stupid and irritates me, but I don’t feel honest changing it, either, so “E’rik” it is. Sigh.
> 
> As he points out, I could easily have had a female greenrider in V’ranen’s place due to when this is set, but I preferred to show a healthy example of what happens when a straight guy ends up in this situation, because if you think about it, it obviously happens a lot. And it doesn’t have to be OMG awkward and horrible for him if everyone understands about these things and nobody is judging anyone for it. So there.
> 
> Incidentally, if anyone thought Derik was on top, think again—nobody was. That’s a _terrible_ idea. ... Unless you know your dragon’s cycles well enough to prepare, I guess, which is not something I ever intended to think about but there it is. Gah, logic, why you do this to me?
> 
> Oh, and all characters are OCs.


	6. Practical Skills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Timeline:** Probably late 2017, perhaps earlier.

Gall thunked her third glass of mead down on the table and stared across it at her partner. “You’ve _never_ cooked for yourself? Not once?”  
  
“Why would I?” Derik glowered at her, taking umbrage at her extreme disbelief. “More to the point: _when_ would I? My time was thoroughly occupied with studying, then raising a dragonet, then being a dragonrider.”  
  
Frowning in skepticism, she held out her hands as though to encompass a simple object. “But it’s, like, a basic life skill.”  
  
He snorted. “It’s called division of labor. I sing, they cook; I fly, they cook; I mission, they cook.” He indicated Rudi’s kitchen with a gesture.  
  
“But . . . you never even cooked out or anything? You know, meat on a stick, fire, something even the biggest, dumbest idiot should be able to do without totally screwing it up?”  
  
“With that attitude, I suppose you’re some sort of culinary expert.” He chuckled, plainly very amused with the notion.  
  
Gall regarded him quite seriously. “My father and I lived in exile for eight years. You met my father. Who do you think made that whole thing work?”  
  
That gave him pause. “Well, all right, but feeding yourself isn’t the same as cooking. Like you said, any idiot can roast meat on a stick, right?”  
  
She rolled her eyes. “Freya’s tits. That’s it. You. Me. General Store. Now.”  
  
“What? But—” He gestured to the half-finished food and drinks on the table, but Gall was already up and tugging on his arm.  
  
“Now!”  
  
“All right, all right!” He downed the last half of his ale as he rose and just managed to get the glass back on the table upright as he was dragged out of the pub.  
  
Twenty minutes later, Derik found himself sitting in the moon-lit Courtyard with his sleeves rolled up and his fingers sunk into a mound of barley and wheat flour on a flat, freshly scrubbed rock. A small fire, courtesy of Fellrazer, gave additional light. Occasionally, a horse or a wolf would wander by to see what was going on, but the presence of the dragon, curled up on a patch of ground he’d toasted to a comfortable warmth, discouraged them from getting too close.  
  
Gall hovered at Derik’s elbow, watching his progress. “Okay, you’ve got your flax, your lard, and my personal very secret ingredients that you will not share with anyone on pain of asskicking. Now just work it until it comes together—carefully! If you mess up that well, your bread is screwed. Here, look. Like this.”  
  
She pushed up her own sleeves and slid her fingers in with his. Derik followed her guidance, and together they pulled the dry ingredients into the wet, first mixing, then kneading. Their hands got slick with the grease and flax, and slid easily over each other. After a few minutes, they had a uniform round of dough.  
  
“There. That’s good.” Gall nodded, then gave him one of those looks, like she expected or hoped for something from him.  
  
After a moment spent deciding how to respond, Derik folded his hands in his lap and said, “So now what?”  
  
Gall shrugged. “It rests overnight, and we get fresh, hot bread in the morning.”  
  
“Really.” Derik raised an eyebrow. “I don’t see an oven.”  
  
“You don’t lug an oven around on a raid, genius.” She punched his shoulder for his quibble. “It bakes on a rack over the fire, or you wrap it around a stick. In this case, stick-bread. Only one rack to be had around here, and it ain’t for baking.” She grinned.  
  
Derik’s mind resolutely sidled around the come-on. “In the meantime, we’ve got a lump of dough sitting on a rock in the middle of the Courtyard. What’s the plan for that?”  
  
“Wanna camp out?”  
  
“You don’t get enough of that on missions?”  
  
“That’s because we have to. This is because we want to. It’s totally different.”  
  
Try as he might, Derik couldn’t fault her logic. And it was nice to be safe from Suvians or rogue time skips under a wide, starry sky, even if it was fake. He couldn’t think why he didn’t come here more often.  
  
“You don’t think it’ll get too cold?” he said.  
  
“Well, if it does,” Gall started eagerly, and then, with a visible effort, turned the remark in a different direction. She’d tried the spooning for warmth tactic before, to no avail. “I’ve got Fellrazer,” she finished. “Anyway, it’s not like we’re in the Archipelago or somewhere it gets proper cold. This is nothing.”  
  
“True enough. All right, I suppose I don’t mind. And in the morning, we’ll see if this recipe of yours actually turns out edible.” He got up to go wash off in the nearby stream.  
  
Gall sprang up after him and gave him a shove, setting him off-balance for a step. “No, we’ll see if _you_ aren’t a completely pathetic waste of space when it comes to practical skills.”  
  
Once recovered, he shoved back. “I have _many_ practical skills.”  
  
“Oh yeah? Name one.”  
  
“Functional literacy?”  
  
“Nah, that’s a fancy-pants Harper skill. Try again.”  
  
This continued while they scrubbed the fat off their hands and while Gall wrapped the bread dough in the empty barley flour package. Finally, they settled down on the grass under a large elm tree and went to sleep.  
  
In the morning, there was fresh, hot bread on a stick, it was indeed edible, and both partners considered it time well spent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published to the PPC Posting Board on June 21, 2018, in response to Novastorme's prompt "One of your characters is trying to cook something."
> 
> Viking flatbread recipe yoinked from a YouTube video I've since lost track of, based on findings from [this study](http://www.archaeology.su.se/polopoly_fs/1.172819.1396250886!/menu/standard/file/LA9.Hansson.pdf).
> 
> The stick-bread comes from commenters on the video, who remarked that the recipe sounds similar to something still made in Scandinavian countries today.


	7. Season's Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Timeline:** 21 9P/2529 AL, Pern. Approximately 3 years since "Racing - Sky" and 12 years prior to the events of "[Harry Potter and the Dragonriders of Pern](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14237403)."

Project Overkill had been a triumph. Days later, its success was confirmed by the oddly anticlimactic bloom of fire on the surface of the Red Star, but E’rik and Skepnadth had nearly slept through it. The extraordinary plot to alter the path of the Red Star by detonating the great star-engines of the _Yokohama_ , _Bahrain_ , and _Buenos Aires_ at carefully picked sites had required the participation of nearly every bronze and green dragon on Pern. The extreme distance and effort involved had left many of them drained.  
  
It had been the thrill of a lifetime, a historic moment the likes of which would never come again. Despite their torpor, everyone was riding high, especially after the browns, blues, and golds got their share of the glory, pushing the empty husks of the old ships toward their final rest in the heart of Rukbat.  
  
Later again, man and dragon had fully recovered. The deep, antique luster had returned to the bronze’s hide. They and some of their wingmates had taken a late morning jaunt east along the coast from Monaco Bay on what was ostensibly a hunt, but was really just an excuse to put the wind back in their wingsails. The hot season was months away, and although Thread would still linger for the remainder of this Pass, the promise of a future in which only rain would fall from the sky gave the air a fresh, heady vitality.  
  
They were midair, flying low and slow for home, when it happened. Out of nowhere, Skepnadth gave a sharp cry of distress and backed air, keening.  
  
Terror lanced E’rik’s heart. _What is it? What’s wrong?_ He thought wildly that some delayed effect of space exposure must be afflicting his dragon and urged him to land at once, but Skepnadth shook his great head.  
  
_The Weyr needs us,_ he said, sorrow lading his thoughts, and pumped his wings. A keen trembled in his throat even as he flew.  
  
Only then did E’rik realize _every_ dragon with them was keening, crying a death-knell. A lump of dread rose in his throat. _But what happened? Who . . . ?_ Not Amaranth, surely? Monaco’s queen was young, healthy. Could something have happened to T’gellan’s Monarth?  
  
_No,_ said Skepnadth. _The Harper has gone._  
  
There was no doubt who he meant—everyone on two legs and four knew of Masterharper Robinton. Further, Skepnadth knew him from E’rik’s memories of his first five Turns in the Harper Hall, before the Masterharper’s heart attack had forced him into retirement. To E’rik, as to many harpers of his generation, Robinton was an awesome figure, someone he admired and strove to emulate, who despite his great importance had always been as a beloved father to his hall full of sons and daughters. His heir Sebell was a worthy master of the crafthall, but Robinton would always be the Harper.  
  
E’rik couldn’t believe what he was hearing. _That’s not possible. Someone’s telling you tales._  
  
He felt more than heard the sad, apologetic rumble in Skepnadth’s chest. _Tiroth’s man sees. Ruth’s man sees. They know. The little cousin has gone, too,_ he added, meaning Robinton’s bronze fire-lizard, Zair. Admiration for draconic devotion on the part of a mere fire-lizard colored his tone.  
  
_But . . ._ Though dragons couldn’t lie, E’rik’s heart still denied what his mind knew. _He was rescued. He recovered from the abduction. We just saved Pern! How could he die now?_  
  
Skepnadth took a moment to reply. No doubt the air was thick with telepathic messages flying back and forth in a jumble of confusion and grief. _They say he was with Aivas. It is as though they simply went to sleep—the Harper, the little cousin, and Aivas. There is a message: ‘And a time to every purpose under heaven.’ I don’t know what that means,_ he answered before E’rik could ask.  
  
He shook his head. It was too much, too impossible to process. _Let’s get home._  
  
The news was confirmed back in Monaco Bay Weyr, many times over, yet it still refused to sink in, though the tears of others loosed his own. E’rik found himself cossetted and fussed over along with the official Weyrharper and anyone else who had ever served in the Harper Hall. He lost track of how many times he said _thank you,_ or _that’s kind of you,_ or _I’m sorry, I really didn’t know him well, he left when I was just an apprentice._ He took it all in a daze until finally someone was kind enough to settle him down in his weyr with a dose of fellis to stop his mind’s turning and spare his dragon a sleepless night.  
  
He finally wept in earnest the day of the burial at sea, which he and Skepnadth overflew along with what seemed like every dragon and fire-lizard on Pern. The air was so thick with wingbeats that the sound was a physical force, but somehow the voices of Menolly and Sebell cut through, raising up in tribute the songs that were not the least part of the legacy the Masterharper of Pern left behind him. The cruelty of it, that those who had been closest to Robinton must hold their tears in check to do their duty by him, that struck home. He cried for them first, and all the others who felt the Harper’s loss most keenly. Then for himself, that he had taken the man for granted as a child, hadn’t had the privilege of knowing him as an adult, and now never would.  
  
The mystery of Aivas’ final words rankled in his mind. All he could get anyone to tell him about them was that they were a reference to a passage from an ancient’s ancient book of myths about some invisible lord and his laws, which seemed harsh and changed arbitrarily from tale to tale. How was that a fitting epitaph for his Master, who was known for being just and forgiving at all times, even to people who didn’t deserve it?  
  
E’rik finally got so fed up with second- and third-hand nonsense that he reserved a time for himself with one of the all-knowing Aivas consoles to see if he could find a more satisfactory explanation. He didn’t like the Ancients’ computer system—its visual language of alien symbols and the mixed-up letters of the keyboard made him feel slow and clumsy, which he wasn’t, even with one eye blinded by his near-fatal Threadscarring three Turns ago. It was agonizing to hunt through text files all relating to this “Bible” of Old Terra, but finally, he came across an audio file. His eye had glazed over to the point that he nearly missed it and had to scroll back up.  
  
“The Byrds?” he muttered aloud. “‘Turn! Turn! Turn! (To Everything There Is a Season).’ Three Turns; that’s many seasons.” It was a bad joke, just to wake himself up. He knew well enough that the Terrans had used a different term for a world’s orbital period.  
  
He felt Skepnadth rouse and listen with him as he played the file. The words as sung were nearly unintelligible, but he knew their meaning by now, and the mellow voices of the singers and their guitars touched him bittersweetly. So did the six new words at the end. “A time for war, and a time for peace— _I swear it’s not too late_.” Six simple words changed the message from one of passively accepting the inevitability of change to one of embracing hope.  
  
_Did you hear all that?_ he asked Skepnadth.  
  
_Yes. I like it. You feel better now, and that’s good._  
  
E’rik chuckled. _High praise. And you’re right. You know, everyone has been talking about things ending. The end of Thread, the end of tradition, the end of Aivas . . . the end of Master Robinton. But that’s only one face of the mark._  
  
_When one season ends, a new one begins._  
  
_You really were listening!_  
  
_Of course._ The bronze sounded almost offended. _This is important to you. If I didn’t listen when it was important, what sort of dragon would I be?_  
  
_You’re the best dragon on Pern,_ said every rider to his beast, and E’rik meant it now as much as all of them. _And you’re right again. It’s a new season—a new Turn—a new era. It’s ours, and now it’s up to us to make it a good one. That’s the message he’d want us to remember._  
  
E’rik shut down the console and left the building. His fingers were already shaping the chords he and Skepnadth hummed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published on the PPC Posting Board on November 15, 2018, as a response to Novastorme's prompts "one of your characters honours a former friend/comrade" and "one of your characters remembers and mourns." (It's not quite either, but a bit of both.)
> 
> AIVAS referring to the Bible as "the greatest book ever written by Mankind" and ending its life with an "Amen" always bugged me. I don't have any issue with the quotation, it's appropriate in context, and the Bible is certainly an important enough facet of Terran history to preserve for study... but are we to take it that the Artificial Intelligence considers itself Christian? Does it have a soul? This introduces way too many weird questions. {X D
> 
> Also, the Pernese deliberately eschewed religious superstition from the beginning in favor of ennobling real-life, down-to-earth heroism. How can any religion, and the importance placed on it by a machine, be anything but deeply confusing to them at best, extremely divisive at worst? It's just a strange move on McCaffrey's part.
> 
> Anyway, the way I see it, the quoted passage set to music is the much more fitting way to honor a harper, and AIVAS has several versions of "Home on the Range," of all silly things, in its databanks, so I don't think an extremely well-known protest song with extremely well-known lyrics is too much of a stretch. From there, I picture E'rik working his way into other folk, folk-rock, classic rock... it would be the British Invasion all over again if he had more time, but there's still Thread, and he's due for a promotion or two soon enough, before his life gets wrecked.


End file.
